Il Drago
by Solaris Day
Summary: Almost immediately into his career as a worldfamous Seeker, the Italian paparazzi began calling Draco Malfoy Il Drago, which when you think about it, is most apt. MPREG, WIP, AU, PostHogwarts
1. Kelsey

**Warnings: Mpreg. Please do NOT read if this is not your cup of tea along with your slice of bread in the morning .**

**Prologue**

**Kelsey**

"Papa, how old were you when you met Da?"

I did not know about the myth of Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy for the first seven years of my life, nor was I intimately acquainted with all the inner workings of my family the way one who is born into that family normally is.

I became a part of the Malfoy-Potter clan late in life, a half-starved and beaten little thing, and what I knew about my fathers' (note the punctuation) I had to learn, which I did by quietly observing – skilled as I was at remaining hidden and unobtrusive.

When I first met Da he said, "I am your father. You are my son." Papa said, after I met him, "No one will hurt you, here." And that was more reassuring. Not that I believed him, of course. Why should I have? In all my short life I had known only pain from those who had professed to care for me. But as time went on, I saw evidence of Papa's words and I grew more comfortable in my new home and with my new family.

It was easy not be afraid of Papa because of his kind and gentle manner and Brahnan and Sophie not the least because they were three and two years old, respectively, at the time of my introduction into the family. It took some doing on Da's part, but I soon learned that most of him was all bluster, and that his bark really was worse than his bite…except when it came to his job of protecting his family, which he took seriously. I've only ever seen my father in a true rage when he perceived a threat to his family, and most people feared him because of the Dark legacy of the Malfoys…but I digress.

As I grew, so did my assurance of my place in the family and rarely did I question it. However, it was this very growing up that gave me a true appreciation for my parents. There was an occasion when a classmate's ugly words caused me to realize how extraordinary it was for a man, both prominent and wealthy, to not only lay claim to a child who was the product of a drunken, one night stand, but to raise him, feed him, shelter him…love him – and for his mate to be equally as accepting – as my parents did.

I began to see my parents differently – not just Papa and Da (in a child's narcissistic way) but as people with lives and interests that existed long before I and my siblings came along.

This, I believe, was the genesis of my parents' memoirs; gleaning from them and the people who knew them the ever changing nuances and facets of their story.

I don't want to give you impression that I labored, clinically collecting bits of facts and information about Papa and Da, obsessively putting quill to parchment. No. I'll leave that to vultures like the busybodies at the Daily Prophet and Witch Weekly that spend their careers hounding me and my family.

Indeed, my most fond memories are of me and Papa kneeling on the warm earth, turning the soil in his garden while Papa, who has a real gift for story-telling, told me stories about his many Hogwarts misadventures.

"Papa, how old were you when you met, Da?" I asked him once, and Papa answered after pausing for the longest time, "I've always known him." I didn't press him although at the time I thought the answer was very strange.

How could Papa have always known Da? After it was a well-known story within my family that they had met as boys shopping for school supplies in Diagon Alley, but it was also true that Papa never talked about his life when he was a little boy. It's as if, for him, life began when he was eleven years old on a train heading to Hogwarts where he met Aunty Hermione and Uncle Ron.

And Da.

* * *

Disclaimer: The characters are the inspiration of the inestimable J.K. Rowling. The story is mine.

Please read and review


	2. A Knock at the Door

**Warnings: Mpreg. Please do NOT read if this is not your cup of tea along with your slice of bread in the morning.**

**Chapter One**

**A Knock at the Door**

It was all Oliver Wood's fault.

More precisely it was the magazine's fault. It – or rather the person in the picture on the cover of the magazine had been the impetus for the events that had left him in his current quandary, after all.

For many weeks now Harry had successfully avoided looking at shiny surfaces, but this morning, as he was getting dressed, he had mistakenly caught a glimpse of his nude body reflected in a mirror – full-length to ensure additional torment – and he was forced to confront – as it were – the naked truth.

He had been petulant all day as a result, snapping at anyone who got in his way until Mrs. Weasley had banished him upstairs to the bedroom he shared with Ron.

Once there, reconciled to further torturing himself, he'd slipped a well-thumbed magazine from its hiding place underneath the mattress and spent several minutes alternating between glaring at the reclining figure smirking up lasciviously at him from the magazine's glossy cover and wiping wretched tears off his face.

Yes, the trouble had started with Oliver Wood, and reckoning that it wasn't rational to cast blame on a lifeless object, Harry was determined to put the blame entirely where it belonged: at the doorstep of his overenthusiastic, former team captain.

"Come with us, Harry," the current Puddlemere United keeper had said, cajolingly. "It'll only be a few drinks with the lads. Besides, you look like you need some cheering up." Oliver had batted his pretty, blue eyes at Harry and pouted his bottom lip for good measure.

Harry, pushover that he was, had acquiesced. He'd go to the pub, have a few laughs with Oliver's Quidditch mates, indulge in a pint or two, and then take his leave, going home for some well deserved rest.

Little had he known, Harry thought bitterly, that the Red Lion was no ordinary pub. Rather, it was a near den of iniquity – thick with smoke of questionable origins, free-flowing alcohol, and people doing all manner of perverse things in darkened corners – and he, innocent lamb that he was, had been led, like one of the cuddly, little creatures, to slaughter.

He'd tried to leave, of course. Pleading all manner of excuses, but Oliver had batted his eyes again, and melting, he'd given in.

One drink had led to two, two to three, and before he'd realized it, he was knocking back a continuous flow of drinks that Oliver and his friends kept pressing into his hands.

The night from that point on melted into a miasma of drunken moments; dancing on a tabletop, (he might have lost his shirt by this time) and other fleeting moments of being pressed up against a wall by a hard body, writhing against his. Unfortunately, his recollections ended, here.

What he _did_ remember, with painful clarity, was waking up the next morning in a strange bed with an unfamiliar body – attached to a horrifyingly familiar face – sticky and sore all over.

His face burning with acute embarrassment, Harry had slipped stealthily from the bed, careful not to disturb his bed partner and high-tailed it back to the Burrow, later congratulating himself on a narrow escape.

Of course, he was Harry Potter, bad karma dogged his every footstep, and for him there was no such thing as a narrow escape.

A sudden knock at the door startled him from his grim musings. "Yeah?"

The door swung slowly inward followed by Ron sticking his head cautiously into the room. "Is it safe to come in?"

Harry's face took on a sheepish expression. "Yeah. Sorry about before," he muttered, contritely.

"No worries, mate," Ron said, shrugging off his apology. He dropped down, heavily, onto the narrow bed opposite Harry's. "You've been having a rough go of it, lately. I'm only surprised you hadn't blown your top, earlier."

Harry looked up, surprised by his friend's uncommon frankness.

Ron caught the look. "What? I know I've been accused of having the emotional range of a teaspoon, but I notice things," he said, a tad defensively.

Harry smiled, ruefully. "Like when your best friend decides to take a brief trip 'round the bend?"

"Well…yeah."

Harry laughed, albeit, a bit tearfully.

Ron leaned forward, concernedly. "Harry, all joking aside. Are you all right?"

Harry brushed underneath his eyes with a furtive swipe of his hand and nodded. "Yeah, Ron. I'm all right," he said, trying to smile, convincingly.

Ron looked doubtful. "You can tell me, you know. Whatever it is."

Harry nodded. "I know. Thanks, Ron," he said, not yet ready to reveal the reason for his state of emotional turmoil.

Ron seemed to recognize this and sat up, unable to hold back the look of relief that crossed his face; anything beyond hearty backslapping and manly hugs put him out of his emotional depths and he'd never seen his friend so teary-eyed. Eager to change the mood, he opened his mouth, the words, "fancy a game of chess?" on the tip of his tongue, when his gaze happened to fall upon the magazine resting, forgotten, on Harry's lap. "What's this?" he asked, instead, leaning over to get a better look.

"What?" Harry asked, distractedly, and then noticed where Ron was looking. "Nothing!" he cried, frantically slapping his hands down to hide the magazine. But it was too late. Ron had already got a hold of it.

Ron waved his prize triumphantly, dodging Harry's lunging attempts to reclaim it. He laughed, and said teasingly, "What is it? A perv mag? Nothing to be ashamed of, Harry."

"Ron…" Harry said, quiet desperation in his voice.

Still, laughing, Ron took no notice, too busy making fun of his friend. "Let's see…" he said, suggestively. "Naughty pictures of witches doing naughty things, eh?" His voice trailed off and the laughter stopped, abruptly, when he got a good look at the front cover.

His heart beating with a sense of impending doom, Harry watched as Ron raised his head and slowly focused his attention on him. "Ron," he tried, again. "Please, listen."

"Harry…" Ron said, slowly. "Please tell me this is _not_ Draco _bloody_ Malfoy on the cover of _PlayWitch_…"

"Ron…"

"And that he's _not_ the reason you've been moping about the place for weeks on end."

Harry's bottom lip started to tremble. "Ron…"

"_Harry_," Ron grounded out. His voice brooked no argument.

Harry's face crumpled, and hot tears began sliding down his face. "Ron," he said, tremulously. "I've done something stupid. _Really_ stupid." He bent forward at the waist and covered his face with his hands as if to hide from Ron's accusatory stare.

"More _stupid_ than mooning after pictures of that poncey git, _Malfoy_?" asked Ron, disbelievingly. "In a magazine filled with naked _blokes_?"

Harry looked up, his face red and streaked with tears. "Ron…_please_," he whispered, brokenly. Each word out of Ron's voice had penetrated him like a knife wound.

Ron's heart gave a twinge but he hardened it against Harry's tears. Here he'd thought something was really wrong with his best friend, and all along…Ron couldn't even complete the thought, and disgusted, he threw the magazine down on the floor.

A sudden knock on the open door startled them and the boys looked up to see Mrs. Weasley's plump figure standing just outside the doorway. She entered the room, a strange expression on her face. She seemed not to notice the tense charge that filled the room or Harry's teary sniffles.

Ron came to his feet. "What is it, Mum?" he asked, concerned.

"What…oh, Ron," she said, sending her son a bemused smile. "There's…someone here to see you, Harry."

"Who?"

"Draco Malfoy."

* * *

There is a picture of the PlayWitch magazine on my livejournal, which can be found in my profile. 

Thanks for the lovely reviews. I was surprised to get so many for just the prologue.

See prologue for disclaimer


	3. The Red Lion

**Warning: Mpreg. Please do NOT read if this is not your cup of tea along with your slice of bread in the morning.**

**Chapter Two**

**The Red Lion**

The day Draco Malfoy turned up on his parents' doorstep, uninvited and unannounced, Ronald Weasley understood, for the first time, what it meant to see red.

"Malfoy," he greeted, belligerently, as he came down the stairs. "What're you doing, here?"

"Ronald," Mrs. Weasley chastised from the top of the stairs.

Malfoy raised his eyebrows, looking coolly at Ron. "I've come to have a private word with Potter," he replied.

"I don't think that's a good idea, Malfoy," Harry said, quietly.

Malfoy raised an eyebrow, meeting Potter's eyes over Ron's shoulder. "I rather think it is," he said coolly.

"Malfoy …" Harry persisted. "Please leave. I've got nothing to say to you."

"You heard him. Leave before I hex your balls into a knot."

Malfoy tsked. "Ever the valiant sidekick, eh Weasley?" He shook his head, sorrowfully. "But still just as crass as ever."

It was Malfoy's supercilious tone that did it. The single thread by which Ron had been holding onto his temper, snapped, and he charged forward, cocked his fist up and back and drove it into Malfoy's face.

Malfoy staggered back and a trickle of blood ran down from his aristocratic nose, giving Ron a grim feeling of satisfaction.

"Ron!" He heard voices rising in alarm, shouting his name, but his entire being was focused on Malfoy and Ron took no notice of them.

"E che cazzo!" Malfoy exclaimed, angrily, gingerly touching his nose. "It's broken," he said, quiet disbelief coloring his voice. "You broke my effing nose."

"A vast improvement, I'd say," Ron replied, smugly.

Malfoy slowly dropped his hand to his side, staring unblinkingly at Ron. "A sight better than your fuck ugly face, I'd wager," he said, venomously.

Ron moved to hit Malfoy, again, but Harry's hand on his arm stopped him. "Damn it, Harry," he cried. "Let me go."

"No," Harry said, stepping closer, using his body as a shield between Ron and Malfoy. "This is stupid."

"Oh, is that how it is, now?" Ron looked at Harry as if he'd just remembered the row they'd had upstairs. He snatched his arm from Harry's grasp and roughly shoved Harry away. "Well … go on," he said, mockingly. "What're you looking at me for? It's him you want, isn't it?"

"Ron!" Mrs. Weasley exclaimed, aghast.

Ron ignored them. How dare Harry look so betrayed? He took another step forward and jabbed Harry's shoulders. "Go on then," he said, pushing Harry farther back.

"Stop," Malfoy ordered, quietly.

"Ron," said Harry, pleadingly, struggling to evade Ron's prodding hands. "Don't do this. It has nothing to do with you."

"The fuck it doesn't."

"Ron!" Mrs. Weasley, cried, marching red-faced towards her son. "That is enough! You will stop this mad behavior of yours at once."

Ron took no notice of his mother. He shoved Harry, again, hard. Harry recoiled from the force of the blow and staggered, stumbling on the edge of the braided, sitting room rug. He nearly fell, but Malfoy caught him, unexpectedly.

"What the fuck are you doing, Weasley?" Malfoy spat out, a note of contempt edging his voice. "I told you to stop! You'll hurt the baby."

Ron stopped dead in his tracks. "Baby," he said, stupidly. "What baby?"

* * *

Draco Malfoy was having a bad day. 

It had not started out that way. He'd awoken, this morning, to blessed silence; a hard fought for luxury. After treating himself to a lie-in, he'd finally got out of bed and had just sat down to a steaming, cup of tea, relishing his decided lack of foreseeable commitments, when an owl had flown through the open kitchen window.

Now, standing in the Weasley homestead, he heartily wished that he'd shot the owl and burnt the missive that had been attached to its leg not the least because of his throbbing face.

Alas, unarmed with the gift of foresight, he had not. Rather, he'd answered the urgent summons with a visit to his family's solicitor in London where an astonishing bit of news, involving Harry Potter, had been made known to him.

He'd sought out Potter's current lodgings and after some brisk detective work made the long journey from London to Ottery St. Catchpole, which apparently rested as far from civilization and a decent cup of take-away coffee as humanly possible. The farther south he'd driven the more foul and vulgar his mood had grown; an increasing stream of English and Italian expletives falling form his lips.

He narrowed his eyes thoughtfully at the boy in his arms. How, he wondered, had a simple bit of fun with Golden Boy Potter turned into this horrendous nightmare?

Draco recalled the night he'd strolled into the Red Lion, a pub he frequented, a few months ago. After a long and grueling season of Quidditch, Draco had been determined to let loose and have fun, but glancing around the environs from his slouched position against the bar, he'd noticed that the pickings had been mightily slim.

"Look," one of his mates had said, suddenly. "Isn't that Harry Potter?"

Draco had straightened, squinting his eyes to see through dim lights and grey smoke. "What?" he'd demanded. "Where?"

"Over there. Dancing … with Wood."

Peering into a darkened corner at the far side of the pub, he'd spotted Potter, gyrating against the Puddlemere United Keeper. From the looks of it, Potter was pissed out of his gourd.

"Well, well," he'd thought to himself. "Isn't this a turn up for the books?" Draco had smiled predatorily. The evening had just taken on a renewed glow of possibilities and it looked like he'd be having some fun after all.

Steadying Potter on his feet, he now answered. "The baby's he carrying, of course."

"Dear Merlin!" cried Mrs. Weasley, looking flummoxed. "Harry …. Is that true?"

Potter looked at Draco. "I …" he said, furrowing his brow, deeply. "But … I didn't tell anyone … How'd you know?" Mrs. Weasley inhaled sharply the sound loud in the sudden silence of the room while Weasley's expression remained frozen and grim.

Draco was the only one who appeared unmoved. He lifted an inquiring brow. "Do you really want to carry on this conversation in front of an audience?"

"I … I guess not," Potter replied, looking at him, dazedly. He gestured feebly at the front door. "We can talk outside, I suppose."

"Alright," said Draco, agreeably. "Lead the way."

And Harry did.

* * *

Italian Translation: E che cazzo! – What the fuck! 

Thanks for the lovely reviews. See prologue for disclaimer.


	4. The Tapestry

**Warning: Mpreg. Please do NOT read if this is not your cup of tea along with your slice of bread in the morning.**

**Chapter Three**

**The Tapestry**

Harry swallowed hard. He would not cry in front of this boy … man.

He took a deep breath to steady himself, and studied Malfoy, under cover of near darkness as the other man busied himself with his wand, cleaning his bloodied face and mending his injured nose.

Malfoy had grown since he'd seen him last … well … that he could remember, of course. He'd only had a vague impression of long, pale limbs and long, pale hair spread across rumpled linen on that long ago morning after.

He had a seeker's build; lithe frame held together with lightly corded sinew. He was also a bit taller than Harry, which caused Harry to feel no small amount of resentment. Too, his features were no longer as pointy as they'd been when they had been school boys, together. He had, in fact, a very attractive face in which was set a pair of impossibly large, grey eyes. His clothes – well-made as far as Harry could tell about these things – hung smartly off his frame and added to his already considerable appeal. Harry was left to conclude that Malfoy's pictures, which commonly appeared in rags such as _Witch Weekly _and _Quidditch Mania,_ really did him little justice.

Another unspoken moment passed while Harry drew his eyes over the well studied angles of Malfoy's face, but he soon realized that cataloguing Malfoy's finer attributes was perhaps not such a good idea as a warm tendril of remembered heat unfurled and began stirring, pleasantly, in his lower belly. He reflexively cleared his throat, in response, to tamp it down, irrationally afraid that Malfoy could somehow discern his thoughts.

Unfortunately, the sound caught Malfoy's attention and he looked up. "What?"

"I … Nothing," Harry said, thinking quickly. "I'd just like it if you'd get on with saying what you came to say."

"Alright. I suppose I _have_ taken up more than enough of Harry Potter's _precious_ time. Never mind that I was just very nearly maimed in the face," Malfoy said, looking at him with a mocking expression. "You might want to think about getting a leash for your animal if attacking people without the slightest provocation is a part of its normal behavior."

"You were _not_ very nearly maimed!" Harry cried, swelling with immediate indignation. "And Ron is _not_ an animal."

"Tut, tut," said Malfoy. "I beg to differ." Harry opened his mouth to disagree, but Malfoy held his hand up in a forestalling manner. "We haven't got time to argue the point."

Harry held his tongue but fumed silently, thinking Malfoy was much more attractive when his mouth was shut.

"Well," Malfoy said, impatiently. "I don't bite. Come closer so I can say what I've got to say without shouting like an uncivilized lout."

Harry hesitated, before stepping into the pool of artificial light given off by the interior lights of the car next to which Malfoy was standing. He was immediately assailed by the smell of manufactured leather. Why, Harry wondered, was Malfoy in possession of a Muggle vehicle? More to the point, how had he come about knowing how to operate one? And most importantly, how _had_ Malfoy found out about the baby when he, Harry, had only just found out himself?

He was afraid to ask.

* * *

Draco was in a foul mood. He was cold. He was tired. And he was hungry. His disposition was not the least bit improved when he recalled the breakfast he'd left uneaten earlier in the day.

The Boy-Who-Lived had much to answer for.

Managing to portray a calm appearance he was far from feeling, Draco calmly drew a folded parchment from the back pocket of his trousers. Unfolding it, he said, "This was owled to me by my solicitor in London, urging me to come to his office on a matter of dire importance."

Potter shook his head, confused. "What –?" he started to say, but Draco ignored him. "His office is bound to Malfoy Manor and he'd been instructed to alert me or my mother about any magical anomalies that took place in or around Malfoy Manor."

Potter shook his head, again, this time refusing to be deterred. "Bound? I don't understand."

Draco sighed impatiently, but he explained. "It's a common Wizarding practice for well-connected witches and wizards anticipating a long absence from their homes. Something the Weasleys are probably not familiar with, I'm sure."

Potter angrily narrowed his eyes at Draco. "Get on with it," he said.

Draco huffed an irritated breath, but went on. "In my case, there'd been a change detected in the Malfoy family tree tapestry – you _do_ know what that is?" he asked, lifting a sardonic brow.

A strange expression crossed Potter's face before he curtly nodded his head and said, "Yes. Although that still doesn't explain how you knew about the baby."

Draco's lips tightened. "Yes, well, I'm getting to that," he said, barely biting back the nasty retort quivering on the tip of his tongue. "A few hundred years ago, in France, where the Malfoy line originated, one of the Malfoy wives, apparently, having grown weary of her husband's philandering decided to take on a unique form of revenge against him. He'd had several offspring with other women, you see, and every time one of his progeny was born, its name appeared on the tapestry without consideration for whether the child was conceived of his wife or not … there were twenty bastard children, at last count, I hear."

"But," Potter interrupted. "How could the tapestry have known to do that?"

"Attach the children's names, you mean?" Draco shrugged. "I'm not sure, but family tree tapestries _are_ ancient and powerful, magical objects. It has something to do with blood magic and lines of heredity. I _do_ know that the magic of the tapestry is woven directly into the magic of the most direct descendent …

Potter winced. "Sounds … painful."

Draco shrugged. He didn't want to admit that he'd often thought the same thing. "This particular Malfoy wife," he continued. "Was a very powerful witch, particularly adept at Transfiguration. Somehow – we're not quite sure how it was done – she changed the magic of the tapestry and made it so that the very next Malfoy-born child would be an heir."

Harry looked blank. "So what? They were Malfoy children. Weren't they? Why would they not have been already included in the inheritance?"

Draco sighed, again. He'd long grown weary of the conversation, but he tried to remember that while admonitions about family curses had been a part of his growing up, Potter had not had that advantage. For all his alleged power, Potter's knowledge about the minutiae of the Wizarding world was probably akin to that of a Muggle-born. He'd not been schooled in things concerning bloodlines and hereditary laws the way a Wizard-born child would have.

"Yes, Potter," he finally admitted. "They _were_ technically Malfoy children, but they never would have been acknowledged as such as they were mostly the issue of whores and scullery maids. Perhaps there were a few women of noble birth in the mix, but if the child was not conceived of the wife, then the child was not and could never have been entitled to any part of the Malfoy inheritance."

"D'you mean to say they had to fend for themselves? But that's … barbaric!" Potter exclaimed, seeming bewildered. "Everyone knows the Malfoys have always been richer than Croesus. There would have been more than enough money to support them all. Even _with_ twenty-odd children."

"Perhaps," Draco conceded. "But that is how aristocratic Wizarding families ensured the purity of their bloodline – carefully selected wives of proper breeding producing legitimate children. Bastards were an unfortunate by-product of illicit affairs." Draco fell silent and watched Potter absorb what he'd been told.

Potter remained quiet for several moments, before he lifted his chin, anger sparking in his eyes. "Is that what my child is?" he queried with a low voice. "A bastard? An unfortunate by-product?"

"No," Draco replied, snidely. "Fauve, the Malfoy wife, changed all that. Didn't she?"

Potter took immediate offense. "Fuck you, Malfoy," he spat out, glaring up at him.

Draco's nostrils flared. "Oh, no, Potter. Fuck you!" Potter opened his mouth, presumably to fire back, but Draco beat him to the punch. "We had a one-off affair, remember? I admit, it was fun. A simple, dirty, fuck to pass the time, but, oh no, nothing's ever that simple with you, is it, Potter? Because weeks later when you should have been a fond and distant memory, I find myself the beneficiary of some rather startling news. '_Mr. Malfoy,_ I'm told, _you've fathered a child.'_ And not just any child …" he cried, flinging his out arms wildly. "St. Potter's child! So please excuse me for being a _little_ irritated."

"Oh, poor you, Malfoy," Potter said, scornfully, interjecting Draco's tirade. "Well, you know what? It's my _body_ that's been sodding hijacked without so much as a by your leave. How about that? I didn't ask this child … this … this _thing_ to take up residence inside of me."

"Oh, so now it's not even a child anymore?" Draco asked, flatly. "It's a thing?"

"Oh, shut up!" Potter cried, flaring up, again.

Draco balled his fists, but remained silent. He wouldn't give Potter the satisfaction of seeing him lose his cool … at least, not more than he already had.

Potter huffed, angrily. "Go on, then. What are you waiting for? Hurry up and finish that horrid fairy tale of yours."

* * *

Malfoy remained silent for another moment, looking as though he wanted to say something nasty, but he finally continued. "As I was saying, Fauve changed the magic of the tapestry, so that the next child born and every child thereafter would be installed as an heir. Needless to say, this greatly displeased my Malfoy ancestor, and he immediately locked his wife away in one of the castle towers," Malfoy blithely said, heedless of Harry's horrified expression. "She remained there for several months, but Fauve, of course, got what she wanted, having cured her husband, Ansel, of his philandering."

Harry blinked. "Alright," he said. "But I still don't understand what all of that has got to do with me."

"There was another proviso woven into the fabric of the tapestry."

"Of course there was," Harry grumbled.

Malfoy ignored him. "The curse, if you will, was passed down to every male heir ever after, including Ansel's son."

"Bet they didn't see that one coming," Harry said, spitefully, unsure to whom he was referring. Ansel, the son, or Fauve herself …

"No," Malfoy agreed. "I don't suppose they did. But it's had the effective measure of keeping a tight rein on the Malfoy men. Contraceptive potions, as you know, are never as effective as abstinence."

"Not the women?"

"No. I don't suppose that would have suited Fauve's purpose."

A small silence fell between them until Harry spoke, again, saying, "So … are you trying to say some moldy piece of cloth, hanging in Malfoy Manor has us … married?" His heart thudded loudly in his chest.

"No, but the child _is_ my heir, and as such I have a duty to protect it – which brings me to another matter."

"What's that?"

"There are those who hunt you still," said Malfoy without preamble. "What do you think they will do when they hear Harry Potter is with child?"

Shivering, Harry opened his mouth, but no sound traveled forth.

"Precisely," Malfoy said. "They will hunt you down, and you will be in no condition to defend yourself _and_ the babe."

"What do you propose I do?" Harry asked, reluctantly.

"I have a home – "

"No!" Harry interrupted. He would not so much as step foot on the grounds of the accursed Malfoy Manor.

"In Italy," Malfoy continued, placidly. "It's where I live most of the year during Quidditch season."

"Oh," Harry said, not knowing what else to say.

"It's well warded and away from prying eyes."

"Why are you suddenly so concerned for my welfare?" Harry wanted to know.

"I'm not," Malfoy bluntly replied. "But you _are_ carrying my child. My heir. And as I said, I have a duty to protect it."

Harry blinked, surprised by how much that had stung. He bit his lip, looking at the shadows lengthening along the country lane in the deepening twilight. He glanced back at Malfoy, anguished. "I can't … I can't …" he stuttered.

"If it will make your decision easier, you should probably know that I'll not be leaving without you," Malfoy said, looking at him with an implacable expression.

Harry gritted his teeth. He was angered by Malfoy's imperious tone, but he could not argue with the truth of his words. There was a bounty on his head, after all, put there by the few rogue Death Eaters that had never been captured after Voldemort's demise. That he was with child made him a more vulnerable target. Still, he couldn't run off with Malfoy on a whim. Malfoy, as everyone knew, was himself an alleged ex-Death Eater. "I've been safe here at the Burrow. Its wards are highly defensible."

"No," Malfoy said, his face screwing up with distaste. "Besides, wouldn't you be putting your friends in even more danger than you are already?"

Harry's face fell although he'd realized that as well. He turned around, blinking furiously against the pressure of rising tears. There was a long silence while Harry considered his options.

Suddenly, he hissed and then exclaimed. "Shit."

"What?" asked Malfoy from behind him.

Harry nodded in the direction of the house. "Look," he said simply.

Malfoy looked up and saw one of his former Hogwarts' professor framed in the window. "The werewolf?"

Harry turned around and shot Malfoy a reproachful look. "Remus Lupin."

Still looking at the house, Malfoy said, "They certainly didn't waste any time."

Harry glanced back at the house, again. "Bloody hell," he muttered. Remus and the curtains partially blocked his view, but through a thin strip of space, Harry was able to see Hermione and other red-haired figures moving around behind Remus. "Bloody hell," he said, again. "They've must've told everyone."

* * *

**Next Chapter:** Cloud of Suspicion

Please see prologue for disclaimer


End file.
